


The Stomping Ground

by TheNinthBow



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Coffee Shops, M/M, Military, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 07:53:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3349448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheNinthBow/pseuds/TheNinthBow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The coffee on base is complete shit. Which is why whenever the higher-ups give him leave, Arthur finds himself driving the half an hour to the next town over to spend $1.95 on a large cup of joe at the town’s resident coffee house, The Stomping Ground.  </p>
<p>Some day, Arthur has often found himself thinking, he’s going to order a sandwich or a scone or something, one item off the handful that are written in chalk up on the wall behind the registers. </p>
<p>Today, however, is not that day. He will, in fact, be lucky if he can grab his coffee. Which, as it so happens, is in another man’s grasp at the moment...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Stomping Ground

**Author's Note:**

> Written for oneshotrobot for the arthureamesgiftexchange over on tumblr. 
> 
> I went with the meet cute idea, and tried to fit in a little hint of canon... Canon before canon? Pre-canon? Canon AU? 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> Thanks to mattheal for giving this a read through!

The coffee on base is complete shit. Which is why whenever the higher-ups give him leave, Arthur finds himself driving the half an hour to the next town over to spend $1.95 on a large cup of joe at the town’s resident coffee house, The Stomping Ground. 

Dark roast, light roast, espresso. Whatever. It doesn’t really matter what kind of coffee really, though he has become partial to The Stomping Ground’s houseblend over the past few months. The coffee house is so decidedly _not_ military that Arthur suspects the owners and clientele have adamantly denied the town’s close military presence in order to create such an amalgam of coffee-shop atmosphere sans military despite the shop's location. Which, for all intents and purposes, suits Arthur just fine. The walls are decorated with a frenetic dash of graffiti art and a mishmash of eclectic memorabilia from the town’s history and, as far as Arthur can tell, its local artists and musicians. It’s a strange mix, considering they’re in the middle of South Carolina, but the urban vibes he might’ve found in New York sink comfortably in with the southern charm of the place. It’s odd, but it works, and it’s so different than the base’s rigid, clean-cut order he just escaped from that he usually finds himself lingering there for hours on end, ordering a second round of coffee and picking up one of the many copies of books that loiter around the coffee tables and armchairs scattered in The Stomping Ground’s interior.

Some day, Arthur has often found himself thinking as he lets the atmosphere sink into his bones and he lets himself unwind, he’s going to order a sandwich or a scone or something, one item off the handful that are written in chalk up on the wall behind the registers.

Today, however, is not that day. He will, in fact, be lucky if he can grab his coffee. Which, as it so happens, is in another man’s grasp at the moment.

And said man doesn’t seem to notice that he’s picked up someone else’s coffee from the pick-up counter. Arthur’s name is written on the cup in the washable ink the shop uses to mark its ceramic mugs. And unless the man’s name is “Arthur” as well (something he’s not expecting, considering it seems a rare enough name nowadays), there is most definitely a problem.

“Excuse me.” Arthur pitches his voice above the soft cacophony of the coffee shop chitchat.

The man doesn’t seem to hear though, because his gaze is focused up, up toward the swirl of purple and red graffiti marring the juncture of wall and ceiling, flowing over the café’s door and over to the back of the shop. Arthur watches as the man’s gaze follows the lines of the graffiti. Even as the man studies the interior of the shop, he lifts Arthur’s coffee—because it _is_ his coffee, he’d heard his order called out before the cup with his name on it was put on the counter—to his mouth. And that can only mean one thing: he means to drink it.

“Sir,” Arthur begins again. And he doesn’t deny the fact that he’s using his military voice there. Because it’s been over a month since he last had enough time off to step off base and it’s been that long since he’s had a decent cup of coffee.

Something in the man must finally register the tone, because his arm freezes on its way up and the lines of the man’s body go rigid, as if reacting automatically to the austere military tone. Arthur smirks a little at that and opens his mouth to get the man’s attention fully, take his coffee back, and enjoy the rest of the afternoon with said coffee before the next minute has worn itself out.

But that’s the exact minute one of the town’s teenagers decides to leave the coffee house, quick, and manages to catch his shoulder right at the center of Arthur’s back. Arthur jerks forward, and he hadn’t noticed he’d already taken a step forward to reclaim his coffee until he realizes with a sickening jolt that he’s already too close to the man and not able to stop his forward momentum even with all his military training.

And isn’t that the tragedy of it.

He manages to sidestep slightly though, so that when he does crash into the man, the crash is more of a dull thud. His shoulder hits the man’s, and that’s about it. But it’s enough to jerk the man back, his body around, and Arthur feels heat coat his side before it’s followed by the wet liquid-warmth of coffee. And he is glad for his military training then and the stoic response he’s developed to any sort of pain. Because, well… hot coffee is not a bullet wound, but it sure as hell is not a pleasant experience by any means.

“Bloody hell,” the man says, words rushed. A hand closes around Arthur’s right bicep, pulling him away from the rest of the spill of the coffee even though it’s already too late. “Watch it,” is what comes next, and Arthur blanches, turning to stare at the man.

“Excuse me?” he says. He finally has the man’s attention. Because the man’s gaze is on him now and fully focused, despite it going from the coffee staining Arthur’s side to Arthur’s face.

“Sorry, mate,” the man says. “But give a guy a little notice before you make a move?”

Arthur stares.

Then he pushes the dull-sharp burn to the back of his mind and stands up straighter, faces the man head on.

“That’s my coffee,” he says.

The man freezes, and Arthur realizes then that the man has raised his free hand and made a move as if to brush the coffee off Arthur’s already soaked side. He looks up, and the eyes that meet Arthur’s are sharp and blue and keenly intelligent.

The man looks down at Arthur’s side, raises an eyebrow pointedly. “Well, it is now.”

“No.” Arthur lets his breath escape him on a sharp sigh and takes a step back, finally lifting his own hand to try to brush the rapidly cooling coffee off his sweater. His shirt is sticking to his skin, and he shakes his head. It’s just coffee, that’s all. Nothing to worry over. “That is my coffee,” he waves vaguely at the now half-empty cup of coffee in the man’s hand. “You took the wrong one.”

The man watches him for a moment before, to Arthur’s horror, he lifts the cup to his lips, takes a sip. His eyebrows shoot up.

“Huh. You’re right. Sorry about that.”

Arthur grunts.

“Here,” the man says. And then a barista is coming around the side of the counter before the man can step closer. She’s carrying a cold cloth for Arthur’s side, a towel for the floor, and a question of what he ordered so a new cup can be made up. Arthur stands there, silent and staring, because the man has grabbed the wet towel before Arthur could and is pressing it to Arthur’s side and telling the barista just exactly what Arthur ordered, as if he could tell by that simple little sip he had of the half-downed cup. And, Arthur supposes, watching it all blankly, he can.

“Sorry again, mate,” the man says. Arthur would think the words were sincere by the man’s actions, his hand still slowly dabbing at Arthur’s side, his gaze down and focused on his movements. But his tone is somewhat removed, a little formal.

Arthur takes a step back, removing the wet towel from the man’s grasp. He looks at this own side before dabbing one more time and placing the towel on the counter.

“It’s fine,” he says. “Forget it.” He steps over the shine of a recently cleaned floor and heads for the counter to wait for his new coffee. He’s resolved to find the farthest table in the coffee house and silently sit out the afternoon with his well-earned caffeine in much needed coffee house solitude.

Another cup is waiting on the counter when Arthur approaches.

“That’s probably yours,” he can’t help but point out. And point out he does, with a hand and a finger and a lifted eyebrow when he turns to look at the man who is still hovering just on the edge of his vision.

The man stares at him a moment more, gaze sweeping up and down his body, before he steps up to the counter. He doesn’t stand too close, but Arthur feels himself stiffen anyway. His own gaze travels up and down the man’s body when the man looks down and grabs the cup.

“Ah yes,” he says. He turns to Arthur and shifts the cup just so so that Arthur can see the new name scrawled on the ceramic mug. _Eames_ , the name reads, and Arthur scoffs.

“Didn’t know they named people after furniture,” he mutters, and doesn’t bother to stop himself. He can see his coffee being poured now. Only a few more moments before he has it in his hand and he can go to a dark corner table and try to relax and enjoy it.

“Unless I invented the furniture. Which,” Eames says, “it would be the other way around then, wouldn’t it?”

“Eames chairs were designed in the mid-1950s by two American modernist designers. Judging by the accent, I doubt you fit that description.” His coffee does come then, and he snatches it up before the barista can put it down on the counter. He turns and looks at the man one last time. He sweeps his gaze up and down again, lingers, because what the hell. He’s off base, out of uniform, this is an artsy coffee house. And despite the fact that this man stole his coffee before spilling it all over him, he is, Arthur notes with some chagrin, kind of attractive. But that doesn’t mean he has to play nice, or forgive the man for stealing his coffee in the first place. Especially when his name sounds nothing like Arthur’s. “Although,” he says slowly, “I suppose the year and timing might not be such a far reach.” 

It’s a low jab, with little weight behind it considering Eames can’t be very much older than Arthur. But the shocked sound of air that escapes the man when Arthur turns and heads to the back of the shop is reward enough.

**

Amazingly, the rest of the afternoon is relaxing in its own way. A small table at the back of the shop is vacant and a battered copy of _Treasure Island_ is sitting unoccupied on the table’s bench.

Arthur turns his glance one more time to the front of the shop before he settles in. Just a quick glance over his shoulder. The man—Eames—is still watching him. But when he sees Arthur glance at him he looks quickly to his wrist. His wrist watch, Arthur realizes as he sees the man curse and he hears over the coffee shop crowd Eames ask for a travel cup from the barista.

Arthur looks away, tries to absorb himself in the book before he can watch the man leave the shop. He tries to ignore the wet, cold cling of his shirt and the sensitive prick of his skin beneath the stained fabric.

When he returns to base, his shirt is dry, albeit ruined, and his veins are settled with the quality caffeine he finally managed to consume. If it takes a few days for the memory of the afternoon and the man to fade from his thoughts, well… spilling hot coffee down one’s side is a traumatic experience, even for an experienced military man.

**

It’s another few weeks before Arthur gets another afternoon off with enough time to head out to the coffee shop. This time, he’s a bit sluggish and still tasting this morning’s stale coffee in the back of his throat.

He enters the shop, gaze skidding over faces in the crowd, looking for signs that this reality is off somehow. Training at the base has kicked itself into high gear. And Arthur may be the one training cadets, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have his own training underway. Technology to perfect. Dreamsharing is nothing new, not for the past few years. But it’s only recently that a few of the men have started playing around with the logistics of it all. The reality and clarity of the dreams themselves. And while Arthur trusts the Cobbs’ knowledge, their excitement sometimes leads to training sessions that leave him a little… paranoid at the end of it.

But The Stomping Ground is just the same as it always is. There’s new music playing over the speakers, something with metal drums and a piano and, Arthur’s sure, a harmonica. And it is so far removed from anything anyone he knows would listen to that he feels his mouth quirk up at the corner. It’s not a bad sound.

He orders his coffee. The houseblend again. His gaze skitters around the people in closest proximity to him, but there’s no sign of the English coffee stealer. He takes a deep breath then, can’t tell whether his tense muscles are from not yet being able to relax or having tensed up as he arrived at the scene of last month’s coffee incident. When his coffee’s ready, he grabs it, scans the crowd, and heads for the empty booth at the back of the shop.

There are no books in easy grabbing distance this time, but he doesn’t mind. There are markers on the table, available should he feel the desire to color at the wood tabletop like so many other patrons have before him. But he ignores them. His coffee is just hot enough, dark, and when he takes a sip, tasting the almost chocolaty flavor mixed with nuts and something more potent, he feels the tension all but sigh out of him. He sits there for a while, emptying his cup, feeling his muscles slowly loosen as he vaguely scans the crowd.

It’s not fifteen minutes before his gaze hitches in its movement. A familiar figure stands at the register, the stance relaxed. His shoulders are slouched, look almost at ease, but Arthur detects something about the hold of them to give him the impression that the man is coiled tight, ready to strike, like a boxer, if something were to go off and startle the man.

Arthur’s not wrong, he discovers, when he watches the man look up, scan the crowd of the coffee shop, and suddenly freeze, shoulders tensing when he spots Arthur.

Arthur lifts an eyebrow, takes a sip of his coffee, and slides his gaze slowly away to the other side of the room. His heart may be beating a little faster, but he accounts it to the sudden uptick in the sharpening of his senses, as if they’re on the lookout should Eames come closer.

Arthur fully expects to see the man’s retreating back walk through the exit when he looks back. His hand stills on its way to his mouth when, instead, he sees Eames weaving between the scattered chairs and footstools and tables and making his way confidently toward Arthur.

“Hello, again,” Eames says. He places his coffee on the table before he takes a seat, and Arthur stares when he slides a plate of scones onto the table in the coffee cup’s wake. “Fancy meeting you here again.”

Arthur looks slowly up from the scones.

Eames is leaning back in his seat. His hand is on his coffee mug though he doesn’t lift it to take a drink. He looks relaxed, like he belongs there, lounging comfortably in the booth and looking out at the crowd, gaze lazy as it moves amongst the other patrons.

Arthur doesn’t respond.

“Thought I owed you an apology for last time,” Eames says, not quite looking at Arthur yet. His tone this time, even though it still seems slightly aloof, is softened by the slightly hushed volume of it, like it’s a secret he’s telling Arthur. The affect isn’t lessened any by the way he tilts his head slightly toward Arthur before he lets his gaze wander back to him. And that look is just this side of mischievous, if Arthur is any reader of expressions. “For stealing the coffee at least. Even if I was helped in the spilling part of it.”

Arthur feels an eyebrow shoot up, doesn’t stop it. “I see,” he deadpans. “And should I apologize for that part of it?”

Eames’s gaze sharpens on him. “Well, if you’d rather,” he says.

Arthur feels something in him go hot at that. Angry hot, frustrating hot, and he opens his mouth to argue when Eames’s sudden grin stops him.

“I’m putting you on,” Eames says. “Relax, mate.”

Arthur takes a slow breath in, sits up a little straighter in his seat. He can’t help but move his cup a little to the right, away from Eames. He waits, but when all Eames does is watch him, he smirks a little.

“You still haven’t apologized,” he says. And yes, he’s using his military tone again, but Eames only seems to huff a soft laugh out at it and looks down, though he appears to almost be smiling.

“I thought the scones would help with that,” he says. He reaches out and slides the plate over and closer to Arthur.

Arthur sees it before it happens. Eames’s mug is one of the tall ones the coffee house uses on occasion. This one is white with red splashes of glaze across it. It matches the raspberry scones Eames is moving forward. But the point of the matter is that the mug is tall, Eames’s arm is low as he slides the plate over, and the trajectory is all wrong and the logistics are off and Arthur pushes back before he says anything.

But it’s too late anyway, and Eames’s arm hits the top of his mug, sends it over. Arthur would be impressed by Eames’s reflexes as he quickly grabs for the mug and manages to prevent it from spilling over entirely. If it weren’t for the fact that Eames’s coffee splashes over the rim of his mug with the movement of its fall and sudden uprighting, and Eames’s hands are on either side of said mug.

Eames’s cry of “Bullocks!” is definitely impressive though, and he manages to whip around half the heads in the coffee shop with the commotion he makes. The mug is safely upright on the slightly wet table now, though, and Arthur’s managed to escape unscathed.

He can’t say the same for Eames, however, who is shaking his hands out over the edge of table. Thankfully away from Arthur.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” is what pops out of Arthur’s mouth first. And Arthur would be surprised at the snort of laughter that comes out of Eames if it weren’t for the half-smile, half-grimace turning up the edge of his mouth.

“I’m usually a bit more composed than that,” Eames says next.

Arthur makes a skeptical hum in response, but takes a few napkins from the holder on the table and slides them over to Eames anyway.

“Not from what I’ve seen,” he says. It earns him a glare. But then a waiter is coming over, and Arthur recognizes the damp cloth in his hands and grabs it before Eames can this time. It shuts Eames up from a further comment when Arthur waves Eames’s hands over, places the cool towel on them, and asks the waiter to bring over another order of whatever coffee Eames ordered before his attempt to offer some semblance of an apology.

**

Tweaking the dreamshare technology ups after that. Arthur can’t help but feel the Cobbs are working on something behind the scenes. They bring Arthur in on whatever work they’re trying to do without explicitly stating what it is they’re actually trying to do. As far as he can tell, they’re attempting to stabilize the dreams while simultaneously make them more detailed and easier to go under.

It wears Arthur out, but he enjoys the challenge, and the Cobbs, brought in by the military to work on the technology, are good company, a break from regular military personnel.

But with the uptick in work, it’s another few weeks before Arthur can get out. He goes to the coffee shop again, won’t deny that the look he sweeps around the interior of the shop doesn’t include one that tries to spot a familiar face, the rigid set of wide shoulders.

The coffee shop has changed a bit. A new splash of pink and red graffiti lines the back of the counter, the front window, and Arthur realizes with a jolt that it’s almost mid-February.

He declines the offer of the cashier to add a heart shaped scone to his order, takes his coffee to what has become his usual table in the back corner, and sits and waits for nothing and no one in particular.

He’s not surprised when an hour passes, almost two, and Eames doesn’t show up. Eames doesn’t seem the kind of man who would linger very long in a town like this. He’d told Arthur the last they met that he was in town for a while on business. What business, he hadn’t said, or for how long. And it hardly mattered. He hadn’t offered a number or a further inquiry as to meeting again, something Arthur simultaneously regretted and was relieved about. But still, he can’t help but feel slightly disappointed as time passes and he remains alone at the table.

Arthur’s coffee mug, refilled once already, has gone cold and empty, the borrowed novel in his hand is boring, and he’s just made up his mind to leave when someone approaches his table. They stand silently by until Arthur looks up.

“They talked me into buy one, get one half-off,” Eames says. There are two mugs in his hand. “A Valentine special, apparently. Though it’s one of the lattes. Not quite sure what kind. Though,” he eyes the empty mug by Arthur’s hand, “perhaps you’ve had enough.”

“It’s just my first,” Arthur lies, and can’t help but feel his lips quirk up as Eames smiles slightly and takes a seat. He slides Arthur’s mug over to him carefully, raises his hand with a placating motion once it’s settled and he takes his hand away slowly.

Arthur snorts, and hopes the caffeine overload won’t make him jittery for the rest of the day.

**

He sees Eames one more time. When work at the base is in high swing and he practically runs out of there at the first chance he gets. It’s later in the evening, just a night off. But he remembers seeing The Stomping Ground hours on the door, and it’s open late on Thursday.

He gets there, expecting nothing more than a cup of coffee. But as soon as he enters his eyes are drawn to the back corner, and it’s Arthur this time who orders a coffee and a plate of scones to share.

Eames looks up when Arthur approaches. His eyes widen in shock when his gaze finally focuses on Arthur.

“Arthur,” he says. “What a lovely surprise.”

“Thought it was about time I paid you back,” he says, and slides the plate of scones over.

Eames is hasty in putting down his coffee mug, and Arthur notices Eames has been doodling on the table with the shop’s markers when Eames’s mug lands on a marker and almost tips over.

“You just want to see me spill something again,” Eames mumbles, steadying his mug and placing the marker farther away.

“Possibly,” Arthur says, and sits only when Eames has finally set his mug carefully and steadily down.

They eat the scones, drink their coffee, and Arthur feels his muscles slowly unwind as Eames talks distractedly at him as he continues to doodle, brushing crumbs away from the woodwork and lines of ink on wood grain.

“You’re an artist?” Arthur says when there’s a lull in the conversation and he recognizes that some of Eames’s sketching eerily resembles sketches from da Vinci's notebook. It’s almost as if the sketches have jumped out of da Vinci’s notebook and landed on the tabletop in dark green and blue markers.

“Of a sort,” Eames replies, and when Arthur says no more he looks up, throws Arthur a smirk, and grabs his hand before Arthur can move. He rolls up Arthur’s sleeve without a word, and Arthur feels heat spread under his collar at the warm fingers around his wrist.

“Don’t,” he says. At Eames’s quick glance he elaborates, “Work.”

Eames’s gaze flicks around his face before he nods and rolls Arthur’s sleeve up higher. His forefinger brushes the crook of Arthur’s elbow, a whisper of a question, and Arthur takes a disinterested sip of his coffee, but holds still. His uniform will hide it, so high up his arm. And it’s not the arm he uses to tap into the PASIV. He’s safe.

Eames draws him a design, and Arthur doesn’t pay it much attention but for the slow, soft drag of the felt-tipped marker against his skin and the steady grip Eames has around his elbow. Eames’s face is nearly stone in his concentration, gaze intense, focused. So that when he finally looks up, Arthur is startled to be caught staring. Eames’s lips quirk up, but he lets Arthur’s arm go without comment, just a simple brush of fingertips against the length of his arm as he releases him.

Arthur looks down, feeling caught out somewhat, and stares at the design Eames has drawn. It’s a swirl of color. Arthur feels himself go slightly cold at the use of military colors, but as he looks, he sees touches of yellow, of blue and… pink amongst the swirls.

And there, in the midst of it all is a coffee cup, tipped over, and coffee spilling out and splashing up into the wild, fanciful designs.

“You fucker,” Arthur says, and shoves at Eames’s shoulder. Eames only laughs and drags his mug away from Arthur’s reach.

**

The next time they meet is completely unexpected, and not in their usual unexpected Stomping Ground kind of way.

Arthur is one layer down, in an unnamable desert. His uniform and helmet hold in the fake heat of his body, raising his temperature to almost unbearable levels, but they protect him when a blast goes off a sand dune away, sending rubble and sand pelting through the air.

He’s meant to find something here. A secret. Dom’s told him it’s a practice run, but from Mile’s frown over his shoulder and Mal’s knowing smile she thought she’d hidden from everyone but Dom, he knows something else is going on that the higher ups have no clue about.

He doesn’t quite know what it is yet. But he’s not stupid. The Cobbs haven’t been happy for weeks. Neither have the higher ups, and if any of the talk about outside militaries adding their own personnel to the dreamshare project are true, then there’s something entirely different going on than Arthur thought was happening a few weeks ago.

Arthur’s designed the military base in this dream, so it’s not hard to tweak a few details. The sergeant on this run, Sgt. Hayes, is the subject, and Cobb’s twisted something around, because when Arthur gets to the bunker he was told he and Cobb and Hayes would rendezvous in, all that’s in there is a metal safe.

It’s not hard to crack it, to open it, and the formula within Arthur knows is for the new compound they’ve been working on. Somnacin, they’ve recently called it. Arthur memorizes the formula quickly, and in less than a minute he’s got it locked in his brain. He puts it back in the safe, secures the lock, before he turns to leave and find Cobb.

A figure lurks in the doorway. Despite the bulk of the uniform, the helmet on the man’s head, Arthur recognizes the figure’s outline, the muscles that line the frame beneath the clothes.

“Hello, Arthur,” Eames says. And Arthur knows by the blank expression that flashes on Eames’s face that he’s equally as shocked.

“Well, fuck,” Arthur says. And that’s it before the explosions start. Arthur ducks just as the ground starts vibrating. Dust rushes in as the base outside the bunker starts collapsing. There’s a yell from outside, a gunshot, and Eames dives into the bunker. Arthur can’t see anything past the sudden dark as the base around them collapses. His training kicks in and he reaches for a light.

Before he can, however, he feels Eames crawl close.

“I have a feeling you’re going to need to get out of this sooner rather than later if the safe is any hint,” he hears Eames say.

The rustling of cloth and metal comes over the sound of debris crashing into the bunker. Something hard and cold presses against his temple.

“Say when, Arthur,” Eames says. And Arthur feels a rush of gratitude that he doesn’t have to pull the trigger this time or wait for the oxygen to run out before he reigns his emotions in completely.

“When,” he says.

The bullet wakes him before he has time to brace himself.

**

It’s only four days before Arthur finds himself back in The Stomping Ground. He’s carrying a briefcase. It looks like an ordinary leather briefcase to everyone in the shop, but inside are wires and gears and the hardware to send each and every one of those people into a sleep with engineered dreams and the ability to steal from them—as silently as a ghost—their deepest and darkest secret.

Arthur’s secret, he supposes now, has something to do with his AWOL status and the name he supposes he’ll have to bury. Cobb is somewhere on the opposite side of the country right now, a new identity cooked up. He’d been working on it for months, some underground scheme he’d cooked up with Mal to take dreamsharing from the military. It won’t work, but for now the military is scrambling around, trying to find its feet without the training device and secret-stealer it’s relied upon for so long.

Arthur didn’t have so long to prepare. In fact, he’d had no time to prepare. But once he was involved, he couldn’t turn away. Didn’t even want to.

But instead of on the other side of the country, he finds himself wandering into the coffee house one last time. After all, if the military is looking for him at this point, they’ll be doing so in the airports and on the highways, not in a small, eclectic little coffee shop just half an hour away.

He orders his coffee, the houseblend once more, and sits at the table with Eames’s counterfeit da Vinci. He wonders what else of Eames was counterfeit, if his art includes shaping his face and stance as well as lines of ink.

He sips the coffee slowly, feels the PASIV tucked securely under the table between his feet.

It’s a long while before he looks up, his coffee now finished, and sees Eames at the counter. He has two mugs in his hands this time, and Arthur watches as Eames turns without hesitation from the counter and heads straight for Arthur’s table.

Eames places the coffees at the far edge of the table as he sits. Only when he’s settled does he slide them both carefully over.

“Refill?” he asks, but the second cup is already in front of Arthur, steaming and dark.

Arthur watches him.

“Houseblend,” Eames says. “Couldn’t pick up the military bearing, you hide it well. Except for maybe the tone sometimes. But I could pick up that much about your coffee preference.”

“MI6?” Arthur asks.

Eames smiles, but it seems almost grim. “Of a sort,” he says.

“You know,” Eames says after a long while of silence. Arthur has reached for his coffee, wrapped his hand around the mug to feel the warmth despite still not taking a sip. He eyes Eames warily. Not sure if he feels his stomach rising out of regret that _this_ is what it’s all turned out to be, or hope that Eames is here regardless. “The base is going mad looking for you and the Cobbs.” 

“Are they?” He knows this already, saw some of the fallout before he made his escape final.

Eames nods. “They think you’re halfway to England by now. I’m afraid English intelligence isn’t too happy with the accusations flying at them right now.”

“That’s what happens when the military tries to share information,” Arthur says.

Eames’s lips quirk up slightly. “Well, their accusations wouldn’t be completely without foundations,” he says. He shifts then, a hand going to the inside of his light jacket. When his hand pulls back, Arthur hears the clink of something small and glass.

Eames places the contents of his pocket down on the table. Four vials of clear liquid glint the overhead lights back at Arthur. One escapes the group, rolls toward the edge of the table. Arthur doesn’t move, lets Eames reach out and stop its progress before it tips over the edge of the table and hits the floor.

“Following orders?” Arthur says.

“I’ve never really been one to follow orders,” Eames says. He sips his coffee, watching Arthur over the rim. “Acting a little on my own motives this time around.”

“And they would be?”

“A little experiment. Maybe,” Eames says.

“Of?”

“Seeing if some aspects I picked up during a romp as a civilian pay off.”

“And those are?”

Eames looks like he’s about to respond, and Arthur stops him, nods to the vials of liquid. Eames huffs out a breath.

“A partnership of sorts, to begin,” Eames says, ignoring Arthur for a moment. “I rather enjoyed your company. But _those_ ,” he nods to the vials this time. “Somnacin. You need them if you want to run that PASIV you have hidden under the table. And,” he adds, after Arthur just watches him for another moment, “yours. If you’d like them.”

Arthur eyes the vials, tries to keep his expression blank despite the pounding of his heart.

“I have the formula for that locked away up here,” he says, tilting his head slightly. “Why would I need the compound as is?”

Eames appears nonchalant as he looks around the shop, leans back slightly to lounge a little more comfortably in his seat. But Arthur notices his finger tapping a subtle rhythm against the handle of his coffee mug.

“Because,” Eames says, and only then lets his gaze lazily land on Arthur. “I know you might have that formula stashed away in that awfully attractive head of yours. But at the moment, do you have a chemist? Or a lab you can make use of?”

Arthur doesn’t reply. Simply looks him over for a moment. His heart is beating a hard rhythm against his chest, in time, it seems, to Eames’s rhythm he’s tapping against ceramic.

“What do you want in return?” he finally asks.

Eames’s smile is a small, subtle thing. But it seems to lighten his entire look.

“I know this fabulous coffee shop in Prague,” he says. “And did I mention I’m horribly good at creating passports?”

“Are you,” Arthur deadpans.

Eames’s smile grows. “They’re a specialty of mine, shall we say.”

“I’m sure they are.” Arthur allows Eames to watch him as he finally takes a sip of his coffee. Then he reaches across the short distance between them, closes his fingers around the vials warmed by Eames’s body heat, and brings them close. Pockets them. “If you spill anything on me, they won’t be able to find the body.”

Eames’s smile splits into a grin. He looks delighted at Arthur’s words. And, Arthur supposes as Eames stretches just slightly, body shifting just that much closer, maybe they both are.


End file.
